Gunslingers 2: Don't Doubt Trust
by Art-Over-Matter
Summary: When Anthony is captured during his solo mission, he's forced to make a decision: die, or kill Ian Hecox... This is a sequel to my other story, Don't Look Back, so you might want to read that first. Rated T for coarse language, violence, and mild gore.


_You're on your own this time, Anthony. No Ian here to cover for you._

This was only Anthony Padilla's second mission. Ever. Sure, the first one had been nine months ago and he'd been through the most hardcore training of his life since then, but that didn't change the fact that this was only the second time he'd ever actually gotten out in the world.

Anthony shrugged out of the suit coat he'd been wearing and tossed it on the floor, loosening his tie. No need to blend in now.

He loaded his pistol and took a deep breath. Eight bullets and no refills. He had a muffler in his pocket for once he didn't need to conceal the weapon. Eight quiet shots. Eight chances.

Realistically, it would only take him two or three.

He slipped the gun into his suit pants pocket. It wasn't completely inconspicuous, but if the map of the building on his iPhone was accurate and the route he needed to take really was clear, he wouldn't meet up with anyone.

He left the room, glancing each way down the hall before proceeding. There was a reason Ian wasn't here; it was a one-man operation. Less conspicuous. And Anthony had been the natural choice for the job.

Besides, an assassination only required one person; one sniper. One murderer.

He wished he didn't have to use a pistol; it meant he'd have to get within fifty yards of the man he had to kill. But unfortunately, if he'd tried anything else he wouldn't have been able to get it in the building.

He stepped out onto the balcony above the small room and checked his phone for the time.

At 8:30 pm, a man would step into the room below him and would be shot before he knew what happened.

That is, if everything went according to plan.

Anthony stepped back against the wall, where a thick red-and-gold curtain blocked him from the door to the room below. If anyone came in from down there, they wouldn't see him.

But that's not where the bodyguard came from.

Dressed in all black with a gun in plain sight at his hip, the man entered straight onto the balcony, taking about four seconds to spot Anthony.

In that time, Anthony had shoved the muffler onto the end of his gun and cocked it, aiming for the man's chest, even though he had no intentions of shooting there.

"Don't say a fucking word," Anthony warned, approaching the guard with his pistol at arms' length. "What are you here for?"

"I could ask the same to you," the man said, spitefully but cautiously.

"You don't get to ask the questions," Anthony said. "You're not the one with the gun." He said this while taking the guard's pistol from his belt. The man growled, but didn't resist.

Anthony kept talking. "A man will come through that door at about eight-thirty, won't he? You're just here to make sure everything's safe. Why? Because his plans are illegal, correct?"

The man nodded reluctantly. "Who the fuck are you? You working for the government?"

"Not exactly. But you don't need to know who I am. All you need to know is that you're going to stay here and not make a sound until I'm done. Otherwise, I'll blow your brains out on the floor. Got it?"

The man bared his teeth, but didn't refuse.

_You can't keep him alive, Anthony. Not only will he fuck with your plans, but no one who leaves here can see your face…._

But he didn't kill him. He put the guard's pistol in his right hand and kept it loaded and pointed at him, while Anthony's muffled pistol was in his left hand. His right eye was dominant, but he had a pistol that could work either way and he could shoot almost as well with his left hand as with his right.

At 8:31, two men entered the room below. One was another bodyguard, and the other was the man Anthony was here to assassinate.

The target had blond hair, a trimmed beard, and a dark navy suit. He looked completely unexceptional. But Anthony had to kill him anyway, no questions asked.

Anthony was crouched down and a few feet away from the edge of the balcony in the hopes that he couldn't be seen. He'd switched the pistols in his hands; his own was in his right, and the guard's was in his left, still pointed at him despite Anthony having to cross his arm over himself to do so.

"Just a few more minutes, then?" the blond man, whose last name was Courcell, said from below.

The guard said something back, too quietly for Anthony to hear.

Courcell responded, something about "…wait."

Then everything went to hell.

"Get out!" the guard beside Anthony shouted. "There's someone here to kill you!"

Anthony fired at Courcell first. Two shots through the balcony rails with his muffled pistol; one hit the man's chest and the other hit his neck. He tried shooting the bodyguards simultaneously, but while a bullet hit the one below, it didn't take the man down.

Anthony was tackled from the side and his head slammed against the plaster of the balcony's railing. His temple throbbed immediately and he couldn't think for several seconds. By the time he started to realize that someone had taken the pistol out of his left hand, he heard the crack of the pistol's shot and pain exploded in his left wrist. He cried out, clenching his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut to block out the agony.

"You killed the wrong man," the bodyguard growled from somewhere above him. "Old Courcell isn't going to be your problem."

Before Anthony could try anything, he was being gagged and dragged away.

O O O

Ian sure as hell hoped Anthony would be okay. He didn't think Anthony would have any problems getting where he needed to be in time, but Ian wondered if, when it came to making the killing shot, Anthony wouldn't be able to do it. Then if he waited too long, he could be seen and—

_Stop it, Ian. You know Anthony can do what he needs to do. He lost his innocence long ago._

Ian loaded the rifle he was holding and looked down the barrel along the sights, lining up his shot. The weapon felt comfortable in the crook of his shoulder and in his hands, like a car that was perfect to drive from the very beginning. At least, that's what it was like for Ian.

He fired.

Four hundred yards away, the bullet tore through the seventh ring on the target.

Bull's eye was ten.

O O O

Anthony wasn't physically restrained when they pulled away his gag and blindfold. But as soon as his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw two guns leveled straight at his chest. One from the right, one from the left. Anthony knew without checking that he had no weapons, assuming they'd bothered to check the inside of his suit pants on his left hip, where a knife was concealed in an inside pocket. Even if they hadn't, it would do him no good now.

He was in some sort of basement that had a light gray floor, white walls, and two bright bulbs hanging down from the ceiling, washing the room with a harsh white glow. It was mostly empty, except a few brooms or something shoved in the corner, the foldable metal chair Anthony was on, and the three people around him. There were the two guards, one of whom he knew was the man who had captured him, and in front of him, a man with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and a short beard to match. He looked to be in his early or mid-forties.

"You know, you're not actually the person I wanted to see," the man said in a southern accent. "But now that you're here, I think you'll do quite nicely."

Anthony wasn't feeling cocky at this point. "Who the fuck are you?"

The man chuckled warmly. "Rogers. Cartan Rogers. But that's really beside the point. The point is, you're here and I've got somethin' you're gonna promise to do before I let you go."

Anthony just stared at him.

"You must know that Ian Hecox, don't you?"

Anthony's blood turned to roadside slush. "Maybe, maybe not."

"Good, that means yes. Well see, Ian and I have a little rivalry goin' on, and it's about time it comes to an end. He'll never expect it."

Anthony couldn't have said anything if he'd tried.

"Here's what I need you to do, boy," Rogers said, crouching down in front of Anthony. He smelled of cheap cologne. "I need you to shoot out your friend's brains. Or his heart," he said, chuckling again. "Whatever works best for you. And, since you'll never do it without a threat, here's that: if you don't kill him in…oh, let's just say two days, I'll find you—or, more likely, have these two fellas find you—and kill you in front of that Ian boy. Then we'll kill him." He finished with a wide smile. "Now, I could just kill you here and find him myself, but that would be inconvenient since I don't know exactly where he is. Besides, that dirty work—I prefer not to do it myself. Or send my men to do it." He paused. "Did you catch that?"

Anthony spat on the floor at the man's feet.

"Excellent, I think we're off to a wonderful start." He stood up, and, without warning, snatched the front of Anthony's rumpled dress shirt, hauling him off the chair and slamming him onto his back on the ground.

Anthony coughed and gasped, trying to regain his breath. He felt the man on top of him take hold of his bloodied left wrist as if in warning of the pain he could cause him.

"Now, you're going to go kill Ian Hecox, aren't you?"

O O O

By the time Ian had left the gun range and gone home, it was ten o'clock. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep until he'd heard whether or not Anthony had completed his mission, but he decided to lie down in bed in a few more hours anyway.

As much as he tried not to, Ian thought a lot about everything _before. Before _he technically became a murderer. _Before _he lived the most lonely, single life his younger self could have imagined. _Before _he had to worry about whether or not he would come back he'd come back to his house every time he left it. _Before, _when he lived in California and had friends other than Anthony, like Mari, Ras, Lasercorn, Sohinki, Joven, and Ryan. Melanie.

He missed them. He and Anthony had had to cut ties with just about everyone they knew around September of 2015. Ian had even ended up getting rid of his German shepherd, Daisy. He missed her, too.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and turned it on to check if he had a text. He and Anthony had an unspoken agreement that they would text each other once they finished a mission that one of them had had to go on alone.

No text.

Ian sighed and grabbed a banana off the counter, stuffing his phone back in his pocket. Life was very boring when he wasn't training, going on a mission, or hanging out with Anthony. Despite everything, the two men still played video games together sometimes. First-person shooters were no longer thrilling, but the simpler games managed somehow to be fun. It felt nice sometimes to feel normal.

Ian couldn't deny that there were things he liked about the job he held now. He was a bit of a thrill-seeker (okay, maybe more than a bit), and there was nothing as thrilling as what he did on a mission.

A loud, crunching _crash _sounded from the garage, making Ian jump. He threw his banana peel on the table and went to grab a pistol before going out.

He kept the pistol's safety on and held it at his hip, not wanting to scare the hell out of a random moron who'd thrown something at the house.

When he went outside and rounded to the garage, he saw something in the glow of the porch and house lights that he really hadn't been expecting.

Anthony's Chevy Volt was slowly backing up on the driveway, revealing not only a huge dent across its license plate and bumper, but also one on the garage door.

"What the fucking frick?" Ian exclaimed, both angry and worried. Unless Anthony had somehow gotten drunk, this meant something was very wrong.

The Volt's engine turned off and the driver's door opened. Anthony stepped out, dressed in a crumpled white dress shirt, bedraggled-looking tie, and black suit pants, and slammed the door shut. The left sleeve of his white shirt was completely drenched in crimson blood, the cloth sticking to Anthony's skin.

"Christ…" Ian said, not quite thinking straight in his surprise. He wasn't used to Anthony going off on his own, or coming back to the house with a wound.

"Sorry," Anthony said vaguely, wincing at the garage door. "I wasn't paying at-attention."

Ian finally snapped to his senses. "Anthony, why the fuck are you here? Why did you drive here? Go to a hospital! Get back in the car, I'll drive."

"No no no no no," Anthony said, shaking his head repeatedly. His face was pale. "I had to tell you. You need to leave here, now. I wanted to c-call but I couldn't hold the ph-phone and drive with one arm."

"Slow down!" Ian said. He was trying not to panic now, but from the outside he probably seemed cool and collected. "Come inside and talk. If anyone sees you out here with so much blood on your arm, they'll shit themselves."

Anthony nodded vaguely. He was clutching his left elbow with his right hand, holding his arm to himself, and Ian knew he was in a lot of pain. He was pissed as hell with himself for not just driving Anthony to the hospital straight away, but instead, he led his friend inside and had him sit on the couch.

Ian grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge and set it on the little table next to Anthony before going to grab a first-aid kit (priorities). It wasn't ideal for the wound, but it was sufficient. Ian knew how to treat a wound, at least, and he had everything he'd need.

"Talk," he demanded as he knelt down in front of Anthony and eased the other man's arm away from where he had it tucked close to his body.

Anthony took a long drink of the beer, then began.

O O O

"We really don't have much time and I wish you wouldn't insist on taking care of this," Anthony said, nodding toward his arm—Ian just cocked an eyebrow—"but here's what I can tell you. I killed Courcell, like I was supposed to, but my plans got fucked up and I ended up captured by some other assholes who—who had different intentions. I don't know if Courcell was involved or not. Regardless, there's someone who wants you dead, Ian. He wants you dead in two days, and I think he has a way of finding you if you don't get out of here as soon as possible. Shit, that hurts."

"Sorry," Ian said absentmindedly, frowning as he tied a tourniquet just below Anthony's elbow. "Who the fuck wants me dead?"

"I—I don't know," Anthony lied, despite his hatred for lying. "He never said." He didn't know what Ian would do if he knew the man's identity, but he didn't want anything to persuade him from leaving as soon as possible.

"What did he look like?" Ian inquired as he carefully tore away Anthony's sleeve and grabbed some cleaning solutions.

Anthony had to admit; Ian had a gentle touch. The water and soap he was using did sting, but nothing Ian did actually caused him pain.

"Uh, black hair. He was in his mid-f—uh, thirties. No facial hair. Asian looking, maybe."

Ian didn't seem to pick up on the fact that Anthony was lying. "I have no idea who the hell that would be. Have I really wronged very many people?"

"I didn't think so," Anthony said before taking another swallow of beer. "But hell if I know." He looked pointedly at Ian, who seemed to decide not to notice.

"Fuck, dude," Ian said, glaring at Anthony's wrist. "You've got this wound on both sides."

"Yeah," Anthony said, cringing. "Bullet went straight through."

"You need to go to a hospital."

"No, it—"

"I can dress this, but I can't give you stitches. You're lucky; it looks like it went right between whatever the fuck these bones are called. Radius and ulna. So nothing broke." Ian looked up at Anthony. "But what I can do isn't enough. You need real medical care."

"I know," Anthony said impatiently. "I'll get to that. But I really, _really _need you to leave. Just—"

"Not until you go to th—"

"I'll go!" Anthony snapped. "But promise me you'll leave. Please, Ian—"

"Where do I go?" Ian burst out. "Where the fuck am I supposed to go, Anthony?"

"I don't know. It doesn't even matter," he pleaded. "A motel, your car, a cardboard box! I don't care, I just want you to leave because it's the only way you're going to be safe."

"I don't need you to take care of me, Anthony," Ian said bitterly, not looking at him as he pulled out some gauze and started to wrap it around Anthony's arm. "I can't even guarantee this mofo can find me."

"Are you really gonna risk it, Ian? Are you really going to sit here on your ass and not do a fucking thing when you _know _that someone wants to kill you? Or do you just not trust me?"

Ian looked up at Anthony, his blue eyes cold. Anthony knew he'd gone too far in accusing Ian of not trusting him. Trust was everything between the two of them. But Anthony had a terrible feeling he knew how Rogers was going to track down Ian, and it meant that Anthony was risking everything by coming here. But otherwise, Ian would have no idea of any of this, and might be tracked in a different way.

Of course, killing him was never an option.

"Don't be a fucking moron, Anthony. Your mind is just fucked up right now because you're—I don't even know what's wrong with you. I believe you, dickhead. I just feel like you're overreacting." He tore the gauze off the roll with more force than necessary before grabbing an adhesive bandage from his first-aid box. Despite his anger, he was still gentle with applying the bandage. He looked up at Anthony. "But I'll leave, if you insist. Just for two days."

"Thank you," Anthony said curtly. "Finally."

O O O

A few hours later, Ian was in his car, driving down the pitch-dark highway to God-knows-where. He had finished dressing Anthony's wound and taken just enough time to grab money and a change of clothes before setting off. He'd felt bad, really, that he hadn't taken the time to apologize to Anthony for being an asshole. They'd said a brief goodbye and weren't on bad terms when Ian had left the house, but Ian had never taken back anything he'd said.

He had known the whole time that all Anthony was doing was trying to keep him safe. But he didn't like to leave his best friend alone, and he didn't even know how this mysterious black-haired man could find him if he wanted to.

Ian sighed and clicked on the radio. Something to distract him.

Anthony had refused to come with Ian and he hadn't exactly explained why, but Ian had the feeling it had something to do with the man being able to track Anthony's whereabouts. How much did this man want to kill Ian? Would he harm Anthony again to get to him? If Ian knew that was the case, he wouldn't keep driving for a single second. But he didn't know. If he went back, Anthony would kill him, and refuse to do _anything _until Ian was on the road again.

Ian wasn't going to worry about himself on this trip, even if he was the one being hunted. He was going to worry about Anthony.

O O O

Two days later, Anthony had been to the hospital and gotten stitches and a thick bandage on his arm. He didn't like it, either, because he couldn't shoot a gun with his left hand anymore.

The days had passed and no one had come for him. He didn't know if that was reassuring or worrying. He had no way to know where Ian was because they'd agreed not to text each other. So Anthony could be safe while Ian was hunted down and killed.

Of course, that wasn't what Cartan Rogers had said he would do—Anthony still vividly remembered the actual threat he'd issued—but that didn't mean much. Somehow Rogers didn't seem to be the type of man who would keep to his word.

Anthony's phone rang, an 'unknown number' tone. Frowning, he swept it off the couch next to him and looked at the number. It wasn't familiar, but he had to wonder if it was Ian calling from something other than his cell phone. That would have been smart.

"Hello?" he answered.

"Your time's up, boy," came the southern-accented reply. "How's old Hecox doing?"

Anthony choked on words. He couldn't answer. He didn't know how to answer.

"Yeah, I thought so. You didn't kill him. Well, now things are gonna have to get complicated, son. I was hoping my threat would be enough to persuade you, but unfortunately you made the wrong choice. Now I'll have to intervene."

"You don't even know where he is," Anthony managed to snarl.

Rogers' chuckle chilled Anthony to the bone. "Are you unfamiliar with modern technology, boy? Of course I know where he is! You'd never thought about us havin' your iPhone for a little while, huh?"

The phone slipped from Anthony's grip. No. No.

Of course they'd had his phone. And he had Ian's number on his phone. They _were _going to track Ian by using Anthony, but not in the way he'd thought. They were going to track Ian's cell phone.

He picked up his phone to see the line was dead. Rogers had hung up.

Trying to think quickly, he pulled up Ian's message window and texted, ditch ur phone now. Don't ask.

The phone took several seconds to process the message; longer than usual.

_unable to send message_

"Fuck. No!" Anthony cursed at it.

He heard a car door slam out in the driveway, making him start. He glanced out the front window and saw two people coming up to his front door. One was Rogers.

They must have been only minutes away when he'd gotten the call.

Time to move.

Anthony grabbed his rifle out of his closet and knelt below the front bedroom window. He lined up his shot with the small silver car on the driveway, where he estimated the gas tank to be. The tank door was on the side of the car facing Anthony, so he was in luck.

A huge thud sounded from the other room. If he didn't distract them, they weren't going to knock; they were going to bust the door down.

Anthony took a deep breath and fired straight through the window. A millisecond later, an explosion erupted from the sedan, bucking the front end of the car into the garage door. A mushroom of flames billowed up, taller than the house itself, and died back down again into a molten mass of black-smoking, sparking, and fire-coughing plastic and metal. Anthony could feel the wave of heat even through the tiny hole and cracks he'd made in the window, and through the glass itself.

All with one shot.

At this point, Anthony was very glad he and Ian didn't live in a neighborhood, because this was going to attract enough attention as it was.

In the silence following the explosion, Anthony heard a gun cock behind him. So much for a distraction.

"Stand up slowly, now, and drop the weapon." It was a man's voice, but not one with an accent. It must have been the bodyguard.

Anthony had too much adrenaline rushing through his veins for him to just drop the rifle. He spun around and pointed it at the man's chest. Then Cartan Rogers emerged behind his bodyguard, also holding a pistol, cocked and ready.

"Come now, Anthony, you know who'll shoot first in this stalemate."

Anthony's finger twitched on the trigger. Could he do it? Could he shoot them both? If he took down only one, the other would shoot him. They were at the wrong angle for a shot to kill both, and he couldn't…he couldn't kill another person. He already had two on his list; he didn't need another.

"Put the gun down, boy," Rogers snarled.

Besides, it was so close-range. A rifle wasn't likely to make a shot like that, though it would be hard to miss—but they were only what, twenty-five feet away?

He'd waited too long. Rogers fired a shot, aimed somewhere low on Anthony, and he felt the bullet graze the skin on his right ankle. He refused to make a sound, although his face contorted with the pain.

He dropped the rifle.

"Good," the southern-accented man said. "Now, where's your cell phone?"

O O O

Ian had been out of cell service for a few minutes after he left the motel, but as soon as it came back, he got a call.

Frowning, he took his eyes off the road just long enough to check the number. It was Anthony's.

He tapped 'accept' and tucked the phone between his ear and his shoulder. "Dude, you weren't supposed to call. What's up?"

"I—nothing, actually. That's what I…wanted to talk about." Anthony's voice was shaky.

"Is there something wrong?"

"Uh, no. No. But it's been two days now and nothing's happened. I know you're probably a ways out, but you, um, you should probably come back now. I guess that—that guy never could find us."

"Are you okay, Anthony? I'm serious. You don't sound okay."

"No, I'm fine. I'm just—tired."

"Okay. Well, I was on my way anyway. I didn't actually go very far. I'll be there in an hour or so."

"Yeah."

"I'll…see you there, Anthony."

"Ian…." He heard Anthony's sharp intake of breath.

"What?"

"Never mind. I'll talk to you when you get here."

"Mkay…."

Anthony hung up. Ian took the phone off his shoulder and tossed it to the seat next to him, glaring at the road. There was something Anthony wasn't telling him.

He guessed the best way to find out what was up was to go back home and ask.

O O O

"Excellent," Rogers said, his gun still at Anthony's head, when the younger man had hung up.

Anthony tossed the phone down on the bed, his jaw set but his eyes burning. No tears would be shed, but that didn't change the intensity of Anthony's despair. He wished he could have been brave. He wished he could have refused to make the call, could have taken a shot to the head instead of betraying his best friend.

But he hadn't. Instead, he'd lured Ian Hecox right into a trap, and they both would pay for it.

"How long until he arrives?" Rogers asked, lowering his gun to let his guard do the honors of keeping the threat up.

"An hour," Anthony said, his voice thick.

"Oh good Lord," Rogers said. "We'll see if I can hold off on shooting you until then."

Anthony sat down on his bed, ignoring the sudden stiffening of the guard at his movement. It hurt too much to stand. "Why the fuck do you want to kill Ian?" His voice held no emotion.

Rogers' expression tensed, then relaxed again. "It's all a little game, you see. A little game of revenge."

Anthony lifted an eyebrow.

"He killed my brother," Rogers spat suddenly. "It was his very first mission, I heard them say. His first kill, even. Shot through the head. Twice," he hissed.

Anthony said nothing.

"But you don't really care, do you? No. I didn't think so. You haven't had anyone you care about die, have you? Die because of you? Again, another no." He smiled. "Well, you're going to find out what it feels like. Either you can kill him yourself and I'll spare you—do remember, my spite is not directed at you—or I can kill you both. Your choice. Either way, you'll have caused the death of your friend, and if you don't kill him yourself, he can experience the torture of watching _you _die slowly in front of him."

Anthony clenched his jaw and looked at the ground between his feet.

There was no way out.

O O O

After an hour of worrying about what was going to happen when he got home, Ian pulled up to the house he shared with Anthony.

There was a mess in the driveway, consisting of globs of melted plastic, warped metal, and unidentifiable dark liquids. As Ian parked at the end of the driveway instead of on it, he could make out the headlights, bumper, and front grill of an Infiniti. It was a ruined car, but it wasn't Anthony's.

Ian turned the car off and reached into the backseat to grab his pistol. He loaded a cartridge in as he stepped out of the vehicle.

The front door was open and hanging rather crookedly on its hinges. The sight of it made Ian shudder. Something was definitely wrong. Why had Anthony not said anything over the phone? Had this happened since then?

Holding his gun at arm's length and pointed at the ground, Ian went up to the front door and cautiously stepped into the house.

"Anthony?"

"I'm here, Ian," Anthony's voice said from his bedroom.

"Are you okay—?" Ian stopped dead when he turned toward to the hallway to see Anthony standing there, aiming a pistol he didn't recognize at Ian's head. "Wh—what are you doing? That's not fucking funny."

"No," Anthony said, sounding choked. "It's not. I'm sorry, Ian. I can't—I don't have a choice."

"What the fuck do you mean?"

That was when the two other men stepped out from Anthony's bedroom. One was a tall man in maybe his forties and the other was a shorter man with dark red hair and an expressionless face. The former looked vaguely familiar, but Ian couldn't place him. Neither of them were Asian, certainly.

"Who are you?" Ian said, the barrel of his pistol jerking between one man and the other. He was outnumbered, even if Anthony was out of the picture.

"Cartan Rogers," the tall man said in a slight southern drawl. "You won't recognize the name, but just know that you've done me wrong and I intend to inflict the same pain on you that you brought upon me. And you'll die."

"Put the gun down, Ian," Anthony said. "You can't shoot your way out of this one."

Ian's hands, which were supporting his pistol, started to shake, but he didn't lower the gun. If they saw, they saw. He wasn't about to let down his guard.

"Anthony," Ian said, "you can't shoot me. I don't believe for a single second that you'll fire that thing at me."

The shorter man to Anthony's left, who was holding a gun, prodded him in the back with it. "Shoot him."

Anthony stood, frozen, his eyes filled with desperate indecision. Ian took his finger off the trigger of his pistol and held his hands in the air. He didn't drop the weapon, but he had no chance of firing if Anthony actually decided to shoot.

"I trust you with my life, Anthony," Ian said simply, his steady blue gaze not wavering from his best friend's face. "You should know that by now."

Anthony was blinking rapidly as if to fight tears, but Ian could see his mind was made up. His gun started to lower.

"You know what this means," Rogers said, forcing a smile directed at Ian. "This means we're going to kill him."

"No!" Ian said, coming to the realization. He'd recognized that they were using the gun to threaten Anthony, but he hadn't thought they'd kill him if their real target was Ian. "No—" Ian said desperately, putting his pistol to his own head. If they wanted him dead, they could have that, as long as—

A gunshot fired and Anthony's blood spattered onto Ian's chest. Everything happened so quickly, Ian could barely follow it. Anthony fell to his knees as Ian screamed in rage, pointing his gun at the southerner and firing twice, three times. Two of the shots hit Rogers' shoulders while the third made a hole in the wall. Ian turned to shoot the other man, only to find that he was already down. He looked down at Anthony, who had his gun raised.

Shot in the chest and still fighting.

Ian leveled his pistol on Rogers again, only to find the barrel of a gun pointed at him.

"I'll have my revenge!" Rogers shouted madly.

"I'll have your death," Ian snarled.

They fired at the same time.

O O O

Anthony dropped his pistol to bring his hands to the blood that was gushing out of his chest. There was so much, so much and he felt dizzy….

He heard two shots, fired almost simultaneously, behind him, and Ian was knocked onto his back right in front of Anthony, a hole in his chest.

Another body fell behind Anthony, but he took notice of nothing but Ian.

Ian Hecox, who was splayed out on his back, gasping for a few gargling breaths.

Who was drowning in blood, just like Anthony.

Anthony fell to his hands and knees beside his friend. "Ian…Ian, t-talk to me."

Ian's dark eyebrows were tipped up into an upside-down V of pain and fear, but his eyes found Anthony's face. "Anthon—Anth'ny…."

Anthony put a quivering hand on Ian's chest, feeling the blood and the desperate heartbeat beneath.

"You should've…." All of Ian's words were slurring into each other. "You should've shot me."

"No," Anthony whispered. The pain and weakness from the wound in his side overtook him and he collapsed onto his side next to his friend. His brother. "No," he repeated as Ian numbly turned his head to look at him. "I would…I would rather this."

Ian shook his head and said nothing, blood seeping out from between his lips. He was still shuddering with his body's attempts to recover.

Anthony's hand found Ian's and they tightened around each other.

Ian had been shot in the heart. Anthony hadn't. They would both die, but Ian would die many minutes, if not hours before Anthony.

That is, his heart would stop beating first.

There was no hope of reaching emergency care; neither of them could move. They were doomed together, looking into each other's eyes in search of comfort.

Ian Hecox died just minutes after being shot. Anthony's heart stopped beating an hour later, but he knew when Ian had died, and he had died with him.

Their bodies died separately, but in the end, they died together. ●


End file.
